The stone hallways of Castle Blackthorn were empty, but they were far from quiet.
From deep within the heart of the fortress, the low, rhythmic tolling of the great bronze bell began to echo. It was a slow, heavy sound that vibrated through the very foundations of the keep—the mourning bell. To the servants cowering in the kitchens and the soldiers patrolling the outer ramparts, it signaled the tragic end of the cursed Crown Prince.
To Alistair and Evadne, it was the opening note of their symphony.
They moved through the servant passages, a labyrinth of narrow, drafty corridors built into the thick stone walls. Alistair led the way, his steps silent and purposeful, the heavy dark cloak concealing the strength of his strides. Evadne walked close behind him, her senses heightened, her fin
